It Started with a Book: The absolutely gorgeous romantic comedy from BESTSELLER Camilla Isley

1

THE OUTLAW

He ghosted me. After a week with no calls, no messages, and not even a stinking like on Instagram, it’s clear I’ve been ghosted—again!

No matter the staggering evidence, I still halfheartedly open the chat app to double-check if I’ve missed a text from Tim. I haven’t had a quiet minute since this morning. This is the first chance I get to sit down and obsess over my non-existent messages.

My heart jumps in my throat at the red circle next to his name. One unread message. Hope flares in my chest as I open the chat, only for fresh humiliation to hit me because what I find on the screen is a hundred times worse than radio silence. It’s one of those deleted text alerts:

From Tim

This message was deleted

The notification is from last night. But I must’ve missed the ping when it arrived because the time stamp places it at one-thirteen in the morning, when my phone is on do not disturb. Tim must’ve thought I’d be good for a drunken, middle-of-the-night booty call. Then sobered up, changed his mind, and deleted all evidence of his earlier contact. Or I simply took too long to reply, and he moved on to texting some other woman he met on a dating app. Either way, Tim was never into me.

I toss the phone onto my bed, a mix of anger and dejected sadness bubbling in my chest. It isn’t about Tim, per se. I’m not in love with him or anything—I wouldn’t even call it a crush. He was one of the few nice-looking guys on dating apps who didn’t give total creep vibes and didn’t have a sweaty selfie of himself as a profile picture. Someone I felt safe to chat with and who wouldn’t send unsolicited genitalia pictures. Or, at least, he appeared decent.

I roll over and bury my face in my pillow, letting go of a frustrated scream. I can’t believe I fell for it again. That I trusted a seemingly good guy saying all the right things while meaning none of them. By the second date, they’re all ready to promise me the moon. By the third date, they seem eager to introduce me to their friends and families. Then we have sex, and there are no more dates. Instead, I get a one-way ticket to ghost town.

Either I really suck in bed—I’m no sex goddess, but I’m pretty sure I don’t qualify for disaster in the sack status—or all the guys I’ve dated were only after a night of fun and nothing else.

That’s it. I won’t have sex ever again until I’m married, or at least until I have a diamond ring on my finger. Ha ha, as if. I can’t even get a guy to take me on a fourth date, let alone propose to me.

For a moment, I allow myself to wallow in self-pity. How could I be so naïve? So desperate for attention that I fell for the oldest trick in the book?

And now, here I am, classic me, spending another Friday night solo. No hot date, no other plans. Pathetic as I am, I’d wanted to keep my schedule clear in case Tim asked me out. I spent an entire week waiting by the phone for a call from a guy who was never going to call me.

The only consolation is that even if I had made other plans, I wouldn’t be better off.

Most of my friends are coupled up, and the only more dreadful option than spending the night by myself, moping, would be to pass it among googly-eyed couples.

I should’ve gone home to see my parents. I have to go on Monday anyway for their thirtieth anniversary—talk about impossible relationship goals—because they refuse to celebrate on any day other than the actual date of the wedding. But besides holding out for Tim, I also didn’t want to cancel my Monday-morning meeting with my grad advisor. Still, if I’d known this was how the weekend was going to go, I would have asked Dr. Hammond to reschedule. But now it’s too late. I can’t send him an email on Friday night after hours to cancel a Monday-morning meeting. It would be too short notice—unprofessional.

My last remaining single friend, Ivy, has disappeared on me as well lately. Not entirely her fault. Until the beginning of summer, we were roommates here in Evanston, a suburb thirty minutes north of Chicago, where I go to grad school. We shared this small studio apartment until June, but she moved to The Loop when she got her master’s degree—she’s a year older than me. Living under the same roof created a unique bond between us, one that’s hard to replicate now that we’re apart. She’s busy with her new job. The start of the school year has been a whirlwind for me—I’m getting my master’s in computer science with a specialization in artificial intelligence. Add that the trek to downtown Chicago on the Metra takes forever and vice versa, and, understandably, we’re not as inseparable as we once were.

Still, it’s worth a try. I text her.

To Ivy

Hey, girl, long time no see. I know it’s last minute, but are you doing anything tonight?

From Ivy

Leigh, hi! You read my mind; I was about to text you.

I have so many things to tell you. But tonight I can’t, sorry.

But let’s meet tomorrow, six-ish? The 3 Arts Club?

Isn’t six a little early to go clubbing? But, whatever, if Ivy wants to party early, who am I to complain? I so need a night out. I won’t even whine about the commute to the Gold Coast.

I let my thumbs fly over the virtual keyboard of my phone as I reply:

To Ivy

It’s a date. See you tomorrow xxx

She texts me the location of the club, saving me from having to google it myself, and I reply with a thumbs up. In a slightly better mood, I drop on the bed and hug the phone to my chest. Saturday night is sorted. The problem remains of what to do tonight. Just the idea of opening another hook-up app—because apparently hooking up is all anyone in there is interested in—to find a last-minute date is appalling. The whole Tim debacle is still smarting too much. Never mind all the happily-ever-after stories I’ve heard of online flings that ended with wedding bells, I know I won’t snag a long-term partner on an app.

In a burst of indignant folly—or long over-due clarity—I delete them all from my phone.

No matter that old-fashioned meet-cutes have become myths. Folklore tales of legend. One by one, I press the little upper-corner Xs on all the colored squares that promised me love and only delivered heartbreak or, in the best cases, like Tim, searing mortification. I’m better off alone than used and scorned by the next online dirtbag.

I stare at all the new holes dotting my home screen and feel almost vindicated, free at last.

In a romance novel, this would be the moment when something exceptional happened. The heroine has just renounced dating, so of course the apartment above her would flood. The leak so severe her ceiling would collapse, and the impossibly handsome new neighbor from upstairs would literally fall in her lap.

In reality, the sky isn’t about to open, and the man of my dreams is not about to drop from the heavens like a fallen angel. I throw a shady glare at my ceiling. I doubt having Mr. Calvin, my ninety-year-old neighbor from upstairs who’s lived in the building since before I was born, fall in my bed would make for an epic romantic moment. At most, a hip replacement and noisy reparation works.

Since a fabled meet-cute isn’t on the cards, I resign myself to a quiet night in.

I could turn the evening productive and finish a paper for my statistical language models class. But honestly, the only thing more pathetic than being alone at home on a Friday would be to be alone doing homework.

I deserve at least a dash of secondhand happiness.

I hop off the bed and go to my bookcase, searching the shelves for something to read on my never-ending TBR. On my meager grad student income, I can’t afford to buy many new books, but I love to shop at thrift stores. And I have a small BookTok account where I post book reviews, so, sometimes, I receive unexpected book mail. My fingertips brush the spines on the top shelf, which is reserved for the newest arrivals. I read the titles in search of an inspiration that isn’t coming. The latest YA enemies-to-lovers from my favorite author? Mmm, YA usually is low on the spice, and I’m in the mood for something steamier. A faerie romantasy? That should bring on the steam, but the world-building might take too long before it gets to the good stuff… Maybe some adult contemporary?

A thud draws my eyes to the floor, where a book has just tumbled at my feet. I pick it up and study the cover. The binding looks a little worse for wear. The author’s name and the title are scratched away, unreadable. But the silhouette of a faceless cowboy is still discernible on the cover. I flip the book open, and it goes straight to Chapter One. The initial pages where the copyright and publishing info should be are missing, torn off. Even if I often shop at secondhand bookstores, I don’t remember buying this book. Also, I emboss all my novels with a cute customized stamp Ivy got me last Christmas that has my BookTok handle on it. Despite the lack of front matter, if the paperback had been mine, I would’ve embossed page one.

Maybe the book is a leftover from when Ivy was living here—some of her socks still magically come out of the dryer in the basement sometimes. I recognize them as hers because Ivy only buys socks with ridiculous prints.

But she has excellent taste in books. So if this is one of hers, it should be good. I read the first line.

The return of Killian St. Clair, the cowboy who’d left as a scrappy eighteen-year-old and come back a ravishing billionaire, was the talk of the town, but all Leighton could remember was the cocky teenager who’d challenged her at every turn.

Uh-huh, a cowboy romance with a hot billionaire and high school nemesis—perfect! Ravishing is exactly the kind of romance hero I need tonight. And the protagonist is called Leighton like me. If that’s not a sign I should read this book, I don’t know what else could be.

I consider getting my annotating kit, but nah, I just want to read and relax. If I really love the book, I can annotate it later and make a video. I’ve been posting on TikTok almost every day in the summer, but since school started I haven’t had time to read much or review the few books I’ve finished.

I get ready for bed and curl under the covers, letting my mind slip into a fictional world where happy endings are always guaranteed. Soon, I get to the meet-cute scene.

You’re trespassing, a gravelly voice informed her.

Despite both of them being on horseback, Leighton still had to look up at the man towering over her from the saddle of his black stallion. Killian St. Clair was eyeing her from under his cowboy hat, gray eyes of steel almost entirely concealed in the brim’s shadow.

I don’t see any fences, she replied. How can you tell this is your land?

His beautiful, cruel mouth twisted into a smug smirk. Oh, I can tell.

I adjust under the blanket, already knowing I’m going to love this story. I’ll suck up the enemies-to-lovers tension like I’m a vampire drinking straight from the vein.

Flipping through page after page, I read until my eyes are red and my lids heavy, still I push through. The tension is just too high, I want to at least get to that first kiss scene. But just as the conflict escalates and the heroine is about to confront the cocky billionaire, the pages turn blank.

I frown. Turn another page. Still blank. I quick-flip the rest of the book, but it’s only blank pages—what the…? Was this a printing error? Is that why the front pages were torn? Someone got mad and ripped them off in frustration?

A giant yawn interrupts my thoughts. I’m too tired to speculate on mysterious, author-less books with three-quarters of the story missing. My lids are sliding closed. I reach out to flip off the nightlamp, welcoming the darkness. The book slides over my chest and I fall asleep with it still in my hands.

But even in my dreams, I don’t let go of the story. Suddenly, I’m its protagonist. I’m the heroine entering the local bar, The Outlaw Bar & Grill, about to have a showdown with the infamous resident billionaire cowboy. It’s as if my brain has decided to finish the narrative I was robbed of.

The inside of the bar is dingy and smells like cheap alcohol and bad decisions. But even in the semi-darkness, my eyes zero in on Killian St. Clair sitting at the counter, draped on a stool with an air of careless arrogance. He’s the perfect romance hero in a flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves that showcase his veiny forearms, dusty jeans that hug his toned thighs like a second skin, and cowboy boots casually hooked in the footrest. His brown, sun-kissed hair is falling over his forehead.

Killian looks exactly how I imagined him while reading the book, but now he’s in high definition and there are so many new little details. The posture of his shoulders, relaxed yet unmistakably alert, as if accustomed to commanding attention without effort. There’s a faint scar above his right eyebrow, a testament to a past that’s both intriguing and mysterious. His jawline is sharp, covered in a day’s worth of stubble, adding to his ruggedly handsome appearance.

He’s nursing a glass of something amber-colored, his fingers idly turning it around on the bar top. The gesture makes me wonder how those same fingers would feel on my skin—rough and calloused from hard work, telling stories of a man not afraid of getting his hands dirty? Or would his be the smooth hands of someone who has done no real work in a long time? A man who just sits in a chair all day counting his piles of cash.

I ignore how the sight of him makes my heart race in my chest and stomp forward.

You did it on purpose, I say.

Hey, Luke? the smug bastard asks the bartender without even glancing my way. Do we have a sign out front saying annoying pixies aren’t allowed inside?

The bartender smirks behind the counter. Not that I know of, boss.

The wretched bar owner takes a leisurely sip of his bourbon. Then we should put one up.

Luke chuckles, and I incinerate him with a stare. At which the barman regains his composure and raises his hands. Hey, Leigh, not my fight. He scoots sideways to go serve another patron of this dubious establishment—sage man, leaving me alone with his annoying boss.

Killian St. Clair finally turns toward me and drags his steely eyes over my body—from my off-the-shoulder crop top down to my cowboy boots. His gaze lingers an extra second on the hem of my shorty-shorts before he lifts his chin, locking eyes with me.

These are not clothes I’d wear in normal life, but if I’m going to live my small-town cowboy romance fantasies to the fullest, why not go all in with a little cosplay?

My nemesis raises an eyebrow at me. Nice boots, Spoon.

Now, I’m still vaguely aware that this is a dream, and that Killian is the man I’m supposed to love to hate until we inevitably fall head over heels for each other. But I find it incredibly baffling that a fictional book boyfriend who only lives in my head still managed to pick a pet name for me that irks me to no end.

"My name is Witherspoon."

Oh, really? He takes another impossibly slow swig of bourbon. "You’re so petite I thought I’d shorten it."

My spine stiffens, and I lift my chin. "I’m not petite. I buy regular-sized clothes."

I stand corrected. One corner of his mouth curls up in a lopsided smirk that is as wicked as it is irresistible. Next, he signals for Luke to pour me a drink. So, what are you doing here at The Outlaw? Not exactly your scene.

One tequila soda for the lady, Luke chirrups, depositing a glass on the scarred and chipped surface of the wooden bar. Everyone knows everyone around here, down to our preferred drink choice—mine apparently being tequila sodas in this fantasy world. A drink that I’ve never touched in real life. I’m more of a Cosmo gal.

No, thank you. I push the cocktail back toward Luke. I’m not here to drink.

What for then, Spoon? This is a bar, if you haven’t noticed. Killian’s grin turns feral. Unless you’re here to pick up some company for the night. In which case⁠—

Finish that sentence and I’m going to have you by the balls, and not in any way you’d like.

Woah, I like fantasy me. Fierce.

Still moving deliberately slowly, Mr. Cowboy gives me another sultry once-over before nonchalantly going back to drinking his bourbon. Only this time, he takes long, drawn-out swallows that have my nerves on edge.

To avoid turning into a total cliché, I avert my gaze from his undoubtedly sexy throat and bobbing Adam’s apple as he drinks. Instead, I concentrate on the tips of his ears. By any standards, ears aren’t sexy.

Killian finally drops the empty glass on the counter with a loud thud, and I judge it safe to stare at his devilishly handsome face again.

Our eyes lock, and my stomach flips. Direct eye contact with Killian St. Clair might never be safe.

He stands up and has to lean down considerably to whisper in my ear. You’d be surprised by what I like, Sugar Spoon.

A shiver runs down my spine while the skin on my neck blisters in the wake of his warm breath caressing down it.

My gaze raises up to his lips which are as full as they’re foul, then upward still to the leaden depth of his hard stare. Even in this crowded bar, I can pick up his scent when he stands this close. He smells like lust and ruin. Like the wilderness, like the woods and the forest and the damp, rich soil.

I behold his chiseled face, with hollowed-out cheeks and a too-straight nose. His sun-kissed brown hair, and his gray eyes brewing up a storm.

If I lifted my chin by a mere inch, I could finally kiss that sinful mouth of his. But then he straightens up, and the moment is gone.

Goodnight, Spoon.

He makes to go away, but I stop him, grabbing him by the wrist. Hey, I came here to talk to you.

He gently but definitively gets free of my grasp. "Pity I’m not in the mood for talking."

Without a second glance my way, he strolls out of the bar as if he owned it—well, he does own it, but that’s irrelevant.

On impulse, I take a long drag from the tequila soda, chucking about half the glass—noting the crisp, subtly sweet agave with a hint of citrus taste that is actually pleasant, and follow him outside.

As I exit the bar, I’m disoriented for a second. I’m standing in a dirt parking lot, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. I scan the various trucks haphazardly parked across the expanse, expecting Killian to drive an old Ford Ranger or some other Nicholas Sparks-novel appropriate pickup, but the reality is much worse. Killian didn’t drive here. He came on his black stallion that he’s presently untying from a hitching rail. Because of course. It’s a cowboy romance, after all.

I stride toward him. Where are we?

His gaze flickers to the piece of plywood nailed above the front door shaped in the likeness of a bandit with his face covered by a red handkerchief.

Killian throws me an alarmed glance. The Outlaw?

No, what town is this?

Now both his eyebrows rise under his tousled fringe. Lakeville Hills?

He gives the same fictional small-town name as the one in the book I was reading.

I chuckle. Of course.

Killian stops adjusting the tightness of his girth and focuses all his attention on me, which is both thrilling and unnerving. Are you alright, Spoon?

The question unleashes a surge of fury within me I’m not entirely sure is my own—mostly that of my character, I suspect. No, I’m not okay, you stole my shop, I accuse, mixing part of the storyline of the book I was reading with this new fictional world I’ve created in my head.

Ah. Killian goes back to fixing his saddle.

You couldn’t be content with owning half the stores in this town. You had to take the one I wanted for my bakery.

FYI, I don’t bake.

Killian St. Clair keeps completely still, so much so that for a moment I think he has turned to stone. When he faces me, his features are unreadable. Tell you what, I’ll rent it back to you, but only if you ask nicely.

I don’t want to rent the shop, I wanted to own it. I was just waiting for the bank to approve my loan.

Those inscrutable gray eyes are fixed on me, causing a churning low in my belly that’s unsettling. Make your business profitable for two years in a row and I’ll sell the shop back to you at the same price I got it. With a preternaturally graceful move, he hoists himself up on the stallion. But only if you say please.

I glare at him. Is this just a game for you?

No games, only business, sweetheart. His voice is low and smooth as he reins in the horse. And maybe a sprinkle of fun.

Fun for whom?

A smirk dances on his lips. Let loose, Sugar Spoon, and you might enjoy the ride as well.

He winks at me before kicking his stallion into a loping canter toward the hills in the distance. I watch him disappear into the setting night and keep watching until the trail of dust he left behind has dissipated, too.

And then I wake up.

2

COUPLED HUMANS’ WISDOM

Being back in the real world feels strange. I blink, still dazed by the too-realistic dream. I swear I can still feel the dust from the parking lot in the back of my throat. I pull up on my elbows, sending the book I was reading last night tumbling to the floor.

I pick it up and examine it again. The battered exterior doesn’t match the modern plotline and setting.

You’re a mystery. I trace my finger over the faceless illustration of the cowboy on the fading cover.

Killian St. Clair, I’m not sure if I like you. But if you were real, I’d love to find out.

I flip the pages to check if the second half of the book is still blank, and it is. But as I return to the last chapter, it’s no longer the one I left off at last night. There’s a new chapter matching exactly what happened in my dream.

No, that’s impossible.

Maybe last night I was so tired I was already half